Later, in bed, she traces the scratches she left on my back while I play with her hair. The silence feels fragile, like glass about to shatter.
"Sleep, kotyonok. You're safe here."
The lie tastes bitter even as I speak it.
The sound is wrong.
Three AM, Sofia warm against my chest, both of us half-asleep. But something in the corridor doesn't belong. A footstep where there shouldn't be one. The absence of Boris's regular patrol that I'd noticed earlier suddenly making horrible sense.
My instincts fire before I'm fully conscious. I shove Sofia hard, rolling her off the bed onto the floor just as the door explodes inward.
Gunfire splits the darkness. Two shots, close together, tearing through the space where Sofia was sleeping seconds ago. Feathers from destroyed pillows float like snow, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air.
I'm already moving. The assassin expects me to be disoriented, tangled in sheets. Instead, I hit him low and fast, driving my shoulder into his gut. We crash into the dresser, wood splintering, the sharp crack mixing with his grunt of surprise.
His gun skitters across the floor. I get my hands around his throat, see his face in the moonlight. Pavel's younger brother. One of my own fucking men.
The betrayal burns hotter than rage. I snap his neck, the wet crack echoing in sudden silence. His body drops, dead weight hitting hardwood, blood beginning to pool.
"Sofia?"
She's crouched by the bed, knife in hand. Of course she has a blade. I keep taking her knives away, but she's been finding ways to arm herself since day one, probably lifted this one from the kitchen when I was making food, or brought it back from the Rosetti manor. That's my girl, always prepared.
"Are you hit?" I demand, hands running over her, checking for blood, feeling her rapid heartbeat.
"No. You?"
"I'm fine."
Her eyes fix on the corpse. "You killed him."
"He was trying to kill you."
My mind races, tactical assessment automatic. Inside job. Someone sent him, someone who knew our routines, when we'd be vulnerable. The guard rotation irregularities I'd dismissed earlier.
"Next time let me handle it," she says, knife still ready.
"There won't be a next time. I'm killing anyone who looks at you wrong."
"That's not practical."
"Watch me make it practical."
Guards flood the corridor, late and useless. Their eyes take in the body, the gun, Sofia with her knife, me with blood on my hands.
"Clear the room," I order. "Deal with the body. Quietly."
When we're alone, I stare at the blood pooling on my floor. Someone sent him, someone inside this compound who wants Sofia dead badly enough to sacrifice a soldier.
Kaz's words echo:Don't expect me to stop them.
The decision crystallizes instantly. We can't stay. My own house has become a death trap.
"Pack your things," I tell Sofia.
She doesn't question it, just starts gathering clothes with quick efficiency while I pull cash from the safe, weapons fromhidden compartments. Each movement is tactical, practiced. We're not just leaving. We're abandoning everything I've built, the bratva leadership, my position. All of it.
For her.
